


The Pilot & the Spy

by lecomtedelacomtesse



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, Multilingual Character, Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Patriotism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Relationship(s), Scottish Character, Secret Identity, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, Wartime Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-04-17 09:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14185713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecomtedelacomtesse/pseuds/lecomtedelacomtesse
Summary: A young female spy, working deep undercover in Poland at the outbreak of the war, meets a certain golden-haired pilot during an assignment. Lonely and desperate to feel a connection with home, passion ensues, and a secret is spilled.Years later, as the war draws to a close, he finds his way back to her, secret intact.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, no beta. Wrote this for myself and just decided to share in case anyone else enjoys it. I’ll continue to re-read and fix any errors I notice. Plot is based on a dream I had. Comments and kudos welcome and greatly appreciated.

It was September of 1944, the tide of the war had turned. I had just finished my longest assignment, stationed in France, just outside of her recently liberated capital. I had been waiting days to receive my next orders and now they were here, the coded telegram confirming the expectation that this would be my final assignment. 

I gripped the flimsy paper in my hand, looking out of the window as the sun set over the familiar war-torn French countryside. The golden light poured over a tired, autumn landscape as the day slowly died. I was going home, but how many were not? How many had lost their lives today, and what was left to fight for? In many ways, the future seemed more uncertain to me now than ever before. 

I turned away just as the final rays burned as embers on the horizon. The logistics of my final operation were clear; I would be assisting to set up a field hospital near my location, with the support of many allied services, including a few members of the RAF. As always, when I heard I would be working with Flying Officers of the Royal Air Force, I found myself wondering about the fate of a young Scottish pilot I had met years ago.

———

I had first met Finley Collins during a mission near Szczecin, Poland in 1939, very early in the war. He had been dropping supplies to a group of Polish rebels near an isolated lake, where I had been stationed on a reconnaissance assignment. 

My own post had not been far from the drop off point, near a makeshift German airbase where I was posing as a local canteen operator. It was a dangerous task, and the Luftwaffe unit I was watching couldn’t know that my German was just as good as theirs. I had already picked up several important snippets of information from their careless conversations. 

That morning I had risked it all to get a message to the service, warning them of an imminent German air attack, possibly on home soil. My late father had been a member of the Polish rebellion, and as I was the only agent nearby who was trusted by both the Polish rebel group and the British, I had been counter-tasked with meeting and receiving a British weapons supply drop on behalf of a unit of Polish rebels nearby. It had been due to arrive at 22:00, but as the clock ticked over to 22:17 I was ready to assume the pilot had met with an unfortunate end.

Or worse. 

I was all too aware that if our plan had been intercepted, the enemy could be on their way to catch me in the act. I waited some distance from the rendezvous point, crouched low just in case. 

Just as I had considered abandoning my post, I spotted the unmarked aircraft overhead. 

It was clear even from a distance that his plane had sustained some damage in the hostile skies over the newly claimed enemy territory—an unmitigated disaster—but by the looks of things, he’d managed to shake them off. He had turned off his engine, presumably either because it was out of fuel, or to minimise the noise, and as the neutral seaplane glided past me, the propellers were still and the engine was silent. I watched it land gracefully on the water.

I helped the pilot bring the plane into the pre-determined boathouse under the cover of night, hurriedly bolting the large wooden door closed behind us and hurrying towards him to receive a report. He was in uniform, I noted wryly, a foolishly optimistic oversight by the RAF—he would have been instantly identifiable as the enemy if he was spotted. This seemed obvious to me, as accustomed as I was to a life of blending-in after my year-long posting. 

He seemed flustered as he ripped off his flight helmet to reveal his flaxen hair, cursing from his cockpit that he would have to stay longer than planned to repair the aircraft before slipping away. I was anxious at this, because of the deteriorating local situation and the fact that the German Luftwaffe unit was due back in a weeks’ time. He would have to plan his exit very carefully to slip out under the cover of darkness and avoid running into them on the way out. 

“Fin Collins.” He eventually offered, climbing out of the cockpit and extending a hand out to shake my own. I had taken it and stayed silent for a moment. He was considerably tall, and though I felt dwarfed by him, I made sure to meet his handshake with equal strength. He cocked his head to the side and captured my eyes, before quietly pressing on, “Ye must be the one they sent out tae meet me?”

He was a Scotsman, I had been able to tell immediately from his accent. It was hard to see his face in that dark boathouse, with only one small skylight that showed a moonless sky outside, but he seemed young, probably around 19 or 20—like me. 

I opened my mouth to respond, but then thought the better of it and simply nodded once. 

“Lena” I replied as our hands dropped, realising with a jolt of fear that I had almost told the pilot my real name. There had been something about the desperation of our situation, about his eyes, and his voice, and the sudden and sharp reminder of home he had brought with him, which had caught me off guard. 

“Yer a lot younger than I expected.” He said, frowning slightly. I just shrugged,

“So are you.”

We spoke for awhile about the mission, as we patched up his plane for the night and unloaded the supplies onto the deck, silently ferrying them back to the small farmhouse where I was living. He had seemed surprised to find me alone out here—and I could tell he wanted to ask me about my family.

I was glad he didn’t. 

”How long has it been,” he asked me instead, “since ye saw someone from home?” I could tell he had noticed my strange behaviour and I silently berated myself. The death of my father recently seemed to have left a chink in my armour. I needed to pull myself together if I wanted to survive. 

“You’re the first in awhile.” I admitted, giving minimal away and busying myself with the task at hand to avoid any more questions. He seemed to be watching me with a type of wary concern, and it bothered me.

We maintained our silence as we replaced the floorboards back over the concealed crates beneath the floor of the cramped kitchen. As we finished up, is hands brushed against my own and I flinched away, perhaps a little too suddenly. 

“I’d better get you some civvies and something to sleep on.” I said quickly, hoping to relieve some awkwardness from the surprising interaction. “You won’t last long here if anybody sees you wearing that.”

He reset his jaw as he frowned down at his uniform and nodded. 

“Thanks, lass.”

I returned to find him in the living room. He had lit the fireplace and I nodded in appreciation, handing him a pile of blankets and some spare clothes which had belonged to my father as he stood up. I could see him better now. He was tall and striking, with blue eyes and a handsome face.

Perhaps it was because I was so far from home, and he had just come fresh from there, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from him as he changed out of his uniform. He met my gaze unflinchingly as he disrobed.

He caught my blush and smiled, dimples appearing in both his cheeks, and the warmth of that moment had compelled me into closing the distance between us, unthinking.

That warmth still danced in his eyes for a moment as I entered his personal space, looking up at him—not altogether desperately but not calmly either. 

I longed to touch him, and he seemed to take pity on me, his expression softening as he gently took my hand to place it onto his chest. He held it there for a moment, his heartbeat beneath my palm. As I moved to pull away, I felt him shiver almost imperceptibly beneath my fingertips. He was beautiful—and alive—and the realisation that I was so affected by him hit me suddenly and unexpectedly.

I noticed that his expression had changed, and he was now regarding me with that wariness again, but I couldn’t help but continue to marvel at the life beneath my fingers. It was mesmerising to see his breathing shallow out and the goosebumps appear on his skin under this simple touch. The contrast between this gentle gesture and the violence I had witnessed over the past year seemed like a healing force. How were human beings capable of doing such terrible things to one another? Why would anyone want to harm this man, or any man this young and this capable of gentleness? I felt the tears begin to prickle at the corner of my eyes.

Suddenly, he ended it, snatching my wrist and holding it up firmly between us. I allowed my tear-filled eyes to be fixed with his sharp glare and braced myself for the rebuff that I was sure would come. Instead, he pulled me towards him, wrapping his arms around me in a hug.

He held me as I cried, patiently smoothing my hair and hushing me gently until the tears finally stopped. I had been starved of gentleness and it showed.

I don’t recall which of us brought our lips together in the end, but when they met I imagined it was just what home tasted like.

When we made love, I let thoughts of home fill my senses, and relished in the soft words he breathed to me in English and Gaelic. I let his pale ginger hair run through my fingers and the scent of him fill my lungs, delighting in the pulse of his life beneath me. I let him heal me and kiss away all the pain of the past year, and I tried to do the same for him. 

The rest of that week, as fond a memory as it was, I would always consider to be the most careless period in my entire secret service career. It wasn’t the first time—nor wouldn’t be the last—that I slept with a man while on assignment. War had a way of accelerating the desperateness of the human need for intimacy, but never had I let someone get so close to the _real_ me, as I did with that particular pilot.

I had no doubt that it was my homesickness which drove me to reach out for him, using him as a lifeline to a homeland I so desperately missed.

I shared with him the story of my life. I’d been born in England, to foreign parents. My father was the son of a Polish count, who had been working to establish the first Polish Embassy in London—finally succeeding in 1929. My mother was originally from the south of France, where I had spent my summers as a child. After she had died of an unknown illness in 1932, I had attended boarding school while my father had stayed in London, working as a diplomat. 

After the Nazis invaded Poland, my father, a former foreign volunteer for the British Army, had returned to his homeland to help mobilise the Polish resistance movement. I had inherited his audacious nature—that was the only explanation I could give about why I too had felt compelled to join the cause. I had persuaded one of my father’s old colleagues to take me to him, and though my father had not been happy to see me, he had eventually understood and accepted it. Before he had been captured and killed only weeks ago, he had put me in touch with the secret service back in Britain so that I could be useful. I had been providing them with information on the enemy ever since. 

Much of this, I told the Scottish pilot, and in return he had told me about his own childhood in the Scottish Borders. His father had been a fighter pilot in the Great War, and he intended to follow in his footsteps. It had been so long since I had seen someone from home, and even though I was from England and he from Scotland, we were united in calling King George our sovereign, “The Coroner” our Prime Minister, and Great Britain our home.

On the night he was to leave we lay in silence in the boathouse, grasping each other close and listening to the water lapping up against the deck beneath us. There had been a deep understanding between us then, both in need of this closeness while we could still feel it—while we were still alive. It was a situation unique to wartime, and we both understood that well. 

It was he who had broken the silence first. 

“My CO told me there was a chance ye might be comin’ back with me?” He asked, a hopeful look in his eyes, and my stomach lurched. I hadn’t heard anything about that. I frowned and shook my head slowly, confused. 

“Sorry, Lass—I thought ye knew.“ He added grimly, “He said ye probably wouldn’t come—but that it was up to you, whether ye’re assignment was goin’ anywhere—if it was safe fer ye tae stay. He said ye were valuable tae ‘em on account of ye bein’ fluent in so many different languages—and the war havin’ only just begun. I didna want tae ask ye sooner—thought ye silence was a way a sayin’ no.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, nestling into him for comfort as I processed the information. It was true that it was often made known to me that I always had an open invitation to return to England—that I could contribute from the safety of a job behind a desk, and the thought of returning filled my mind and warmed me beyond explanation.

But I had seen some horrendous things over this past year; so many unspeakable crimes had been committed against the local people—against my late father, who had been killed before my eyes—the sight still fresh in my mind. I knew that there were budding plans of yet more atrocities still to come, and was the thought of these people and their suffering which snapped me out of my daydream. 

“Not yet.” I said eventually, “I have to stay. There are too many people relying on me—too much is at stake.”

He nodded with a rueful understanding, and pressed a hard kiss to my forehead. He hadn’t needed to say any more—knowing that he would do the same, were he in my position. He wouldn’t make it harder than it had to be. 

With the silent agreement not to dwell on what had happened over the past week between us—we quietly got back to work.

We didn’t speak again until he had climbed back into the cockpit and jammed his leather flight helmet back onto his head. I readied my hand on the cockpit door to close him in.

“Lena, wait.” He reached out and put his hand over mine to stop me. I winced at his use of my false name. “Do ye think I’ll ever see ye again?” 

I didn’t meet his eyes. 

He sighed, “Will ye at least tell me yer name—yer _real_ name?” He looked so lost, but looking up at him I had seen hope in his clear blue eyes and it landed a heavy pain square in my chest.

There had been a moment then, where we had just looked at each other. I was nobody, alone and anonymous, and so very far from home. There was no one to miss me there, no one to care or mourn for me if I died. There had been only him—but he was leaving now, not to return, and I would be swallowed up by the foreignness of this place once more. 

“Florence.” I answered simply, feeling my blood course through me at the sound of my long lost name. For a moment I dropped my guard and let him see, raw and unbridled, the grief and longing in my eyes, before closing him into the cockpit and sealing it with a lingering open palm to his window. He had brought his gloved hand up to press it against mine through the Perspex and looked into my eyes, seeing my soul there, and with a last nod I had let him go. 

I had no idea why I had shared my real name with the pilot. It was foolish, but it had been so long already and I had lost myself so much in that past year, that it felt reassuring to send that piece of me back home with him, even if it was the only part of myself ever to return.


	2. Chapter 2

1944 was a much later stage in the war, many of the soldiers and civilians arriving here had seen more death and destruction in recent months than they had the whole conflict, and not many could stand upright after the most recent barrage. There were about 200 in total who would be arriving to the field hospital overnight, many injured, and my instructions were to help coordinate it, while maintaining my cover as a veteran officer from the French Resistance. There was no time for reminiscing, or thinking nostalgically back to a time when young men were still whole and untouched by this war. I mentally scolded myself for thinking back to that week in ‘39. Still, I couldn’t stop a sick feeling from spreading through me as I realised the young pilot was probably dead by now.

It was evening when we heard the first planes arriving—the low hum of the transport planes and unmistakable buzz of their spitfire escorts. We took in the first twenty or so injured men and it was slow going. We worked through the night to settle the patients into the waiting beds and show the new medical staff what they needed to get to work. I was grateful when I received word that the RAF had stayed up to help us settle them all in.

The following morning, after stealing just a couple of hours of sleep, I woke to find that the flying officers were still there. They had set up a training post for some of the women who wanted to learn how to use guns and other weapons, to defend themselves and the base if needed. We had all heard of opportunistic soldiers passing through and taking advantage of a situation like this. With the men busy fighting at the front, us women had to learn to defend ourselves—and the base, should it be required. 

Unlike many other women at the base, nurses mainly, I was comfortable with using all manner of weapons if I needed to, having now worked as an undercover agent for the British secret service for over six years. I took my time packing up and getting ready to leave the small cottage that morning as the women practiced aiming and were shown how to reload and use weapons in a field just behind me. It was hard to believe I had finally been given the order to return home, after all these years on the continent and various different assumed identities. I hung back in the small house to allow myself a moment before we left. I was able to watch the group from my window. 

I felt the ghost of a smile cross my face as I watched the men and women enjoying each other’s company. They had each rarely an opportunity to have carefree interactions these days, and they were taking advantage of the sunshine.

The men coached the women to use their weapons—though I knew full well that some of those ladies were only feigning ignorance to get the care and attention of the uniformed officers—but regardless of their experience, it was clear that none of these women were quite used to the feeling of the deadly weapons in their hands. Not like me. 

When I spotted _him_ among the officers, I forgot to breathe. I recognised him instantly. Golden hair that had a ginger edge to it, neatly tucked under his service cap, his eyes bluer than the Wedgwood blue of his uniform. 

The time slipped by as I gazed disbelieving at the blond pilot. What were the odds, after I’d thought of him again only yesterday? He was holding Nancy’s elbow to steady her, guiding her gently. Something she said made him smile, and a vaguely familiar flash of warmth lit up his face. My breath caught in my throat, it had been almost five years since that distant week in Poland, and I felt no hint of jealousy. In fact, I was relieved to see him so at ease—so happy. He was still so beautiful—so full of life, and that living energy streamed through him just as it had on the night we met. His features were even more acute in the bright light of day: the brightness of his eyes, creasing at the corners when he gave that genuine smile of his, the gold of his hair, the warmth in his dimpled cheeks. The memory of him had sometimes come to represent an ideal of youth and life to me, that I’d still think about sometimes, even though I had long since lost the ability to recall his face. 

He was just as I remembered, hardly touched by the years that had passed since I’d seen him last. I noted the decorations on his uniform—the DFC _and_ Bar. Yet the hunched shoulders that I saw on so many other men, reflecting the burden of exposure to years of violence and trauma, did not seem to plague him. He was confident and relaxed, almost carefree. 

Yesterday’s dark moment returned to me. I had wondered what had become of him—thought he would be dead by now, as so many other young men were, so many cut down in front of my own eyes. His life might have ended that very day we said goodbye, for all I had known. The one thing that had been certain was that I never thought I’d see him again.

Yet, there he was, right in front of me. My eyes slowly filled with tears as I watched him now. He was alive, _so_ alive. Seeing him again brought such hope for humanity into my heart and just the sight of him began to heal me in the same way that he had managed to do in Poland, years ago. 

I scolded myself when I realised that I was straightening my dress, wondering whether it looked OK. I was sure that I had changed since he last saw me, I was definitely thinner and probably more weary, but then again, weren’t we all? It had been a long time since I had felt self-conscious over a man. This wasn’t the time for such silly thoughts. He must have moved on—was likely to be married now. He probably wouldn’t even remember me, though I knew I would remember that passion-filled week we had shared for the rest of my life.

I sighed, forcing him from my mind, and begrudgingly started to collect my things. Perhaps I could sneak by the group unnoticed.

I was startled when I heard a knock at the door to the back stairs. A voice called out.  
“Cecile, could I come in?” It was him. My eyes shot to the window, I hadn’t noticed him slip away from the others. He hadn’t seen me yet, so I turned my back to the door and shouted for him to enter. 

“The others said ye were in here”, he said softly, opening the door. “I came tae see if there’s nothing we can be doin’ tae help make sure ye’ll be able tae get yer way out of here with us. I’ve been told we’re tae take ye back home today.” 

His Scottish intonation caught me off guard, just like last time. I took in a deep breath before responding. 

“I’m so’ry to be... antisocial,” I responded in my faux, well-practiced French accent, “I’ve ‘ad some mo’re expe’rience zan ze othe’rs with weapons, you see. Seen mo’re zan my fai’r share œf combat in zis wa’r. Thou’ght I’d geev them some space to lea’rn and not use up your’ time.” I turned slowly, watching his face carefully for any signs of recognition. 

At first he just stood there, a crease working it’s way into his forehead before the flood of recognition I had waited for began to slowly spread across his features. I watched his mouth fall open at the sight of me, watched about ten different emotions flash through his bright blue eyes as he blinked first in confusion then—perhaps fearful disbelief—and eventually pure, unbridled joy. 

He kicked the door closed behind him and took a step towards me. 

“Florence?” his voice was almost a whisper, as if my name was his most precious secret. 

Relief flooded through me, _he remembered_. His face said it all. I dropped the fake accent and smiled.

“Hello, Fin.”

With that, he rushed forwards and threw his arms around me, pulling me into him, and taking all the air out of my lungs. I laughed lightly, as he held me tight for a full ten seconds at least, before pulling back and taking my face in his hands. 

I didn’t know exactly what resurfaced between us in that moment—it wasn’t necessarily a feeling of love or romance; perhaps it was just a platonic comradeship at having met each other again—at being each so happy to find the other alive. It was a unique type of affection, and we simply embraced like two long lost friends.

“They—“ he started, “they said tha’ there might... tha’ there’d be a female secret service officer here—goin’ by the name of Cecile—and well, of course ye crossed my mind when they said... but I didn’t dare tae think it could be... I thought ye were stationed in Poland, lass.” He finally finished. 

I had spent most of the war in France, assisting the French rebels to destabilise the German position on the continent. It wasn’t long after I met Fin the first time that it had become obvious that Poland wasn’t the strongest position for me to be anymore, and I had moved into France just prior to the events at Dunkirk.

I told him the basics of this, which I knew was a little reckless, but I trusted him. Besides, I was tired of running, and I wanted to go home. I did notice a dark flash in his eyes at the mention of Dunkirk, and I wondered what it was he’d seen there. 

“Dunkirk.” He said solemnly, as though sensing my curiosity “Aye, I was there. My squadron assisted with the evac—well, at least we tried tae. I was the only one tae make it back. My Spitfire took a right beatin’, had tae crash land it down in the channel.” A frown crossed his face again and he looked down at his hands solemnly. “Was lucky. Civilian boat picked me up, but the Spit sunk tae the bottom. I nearly went down with ‘er.” He closed his eyes and swallowed at the clearly uncomfortable memory. There was a long pause, and when he opened his eyes again, they burned into mine, his thumb rubbing against my cheek absently, heat pooling under his touch as the air between us quickly thinned. I was glad he had made it out—that at least one beautiful life had been saved in this crazy, awful waste of youth.

“Florence,” he continued, and I shivered at the way his accent caressed my name. “Lass, I wanted tae tell ye, tha’... as I went down...” his breath was hot on my face. I realised that spark was still there between us, an electric current palpable in the air that separated us. “as I felt that water enter my lungs...” he glanced up at me for a moment, and the blue of his eyes sent a shock through me. He shifted uncomfortably, “I thought of ye.” He had leaned in closer, and his voice was soft, gentle against my ear, clearly uncertain about how I would react to this revelation.

I closed my eyes and leant into his touch, letting him know it was okay. The fact that I still meant something to someone, even as long ago as Dunkirk, in a world where I was so used to being alone, made me feel more human than I had in a long time. 

“I’ve thought of you too, Fin.” Was my simple reply. 

“Please,” He said in response, “let me take ye out of here. Don’ make me leave ye behind again.”

I hesitated, but knew I was tired. Was I finally finished with this place, with all the memories it held? I took his hands and mine, and brought them to my lips, pressing kisses along his knuckles. That’s when I noticed that his right hand was completely covered in scar tissue. _So, he wasn’t untouched by this war after all._ I tried not to give away too much of my sympathy through my expression, as I knew he wouldn’t like it. We all had our scars. I looked up at him, captured his eyes, and nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

No sooner had I agreed to go with him, than a huge grin spread across his handsome face and he lifted me in the air, spinning me around as I laughed in surprise. I had definitely not laughed like that in a very long time. 

As he set me back down, I quickly lost the fight to my stern inner voice, which told me I should be more cautious. The war was not yet won, Europe was in ruin and the biggest horrors for both sides might still be yet to come. He noticed my frown and pulled me in against him, kissing me on my forehead. 

“Collins!” I hissed, using all the strength I had to push against him and struggle free. This level of sudden affection towards me—the tender kiss on the top of my head—had been too sudden and unexpected. It was inappropriate. 

I tried not to notice the discomfort in his eyes as I put some distance between us, but I couldn’t help taking pity on him just the same. 

“Look, I know. I truly do.” I said, “I’m glad to see you alive as well, and you have no _idea_ how much I’m dying to get out of this place. Just, please– we need to be careful. We can’t be seen like this, you know that. We’re supposed to have never met, remember? We need to be professional.”

What I wanted to say was that we barely knew each other. That the fact we had spent one week together five years ago did not mean that he could presume to settle into that sort of intimacy with me here and now. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but paused, then nodded solemnly, curling his hands into tight fists by his side. I could tell he was resisting the urge to reach out to me again. 

I glanced out the window, to be sure that nobody had noticed our reckless embrace. I saw Nancy looking towards the door of the cottage, concern—or was it suspicion—etched on her face. She was probably wondering why the door was now closed, and whether I was in danger. She would probably come and check on me soon. The pilot followed my gaze and took another step back from me for good measure.

“How long do we have?” I asked him, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight back and forth awkwardly between his heels and the balls of his feet. A quick glance down at his sleeve insignia earlier had told me that he was now a Flight Lieutenant—and a decorated one at that—but even this, coupled with all the years that had passed since I saw him last, didn’t stop him from looking young. 

“We can be out of here by midday.” He responded, “I’ve got a civilian aircraft all ready. I’ll take ye myself.”

I nodded at him, trying not to dwell on the protective edge I picked up his voice. Something heavy had settled in the pit of my stomach as my moment of weakness had passed and I realised, with sorrow, that it wasn’t going to be so easy. Could I really just leave with him and never look back? I feared that I already knew the answer. 

It was only half nine, we had time. _Or was it that I needed time, to make up my mind?_ I shook my head as I made my way into to the kitchen, trying to push these thoughts away.

“We can spa’re fif’teen minutes, no?” I called to him loudly, switching back to my feigned French accent, my tone polite as though we had only just met. The ease of which the lies slipped out frightened me often, but never so much as now. “Woul’d you like so’me té befo’re we set œff, Fli’ght Lieutenant?” 

“Aye—sure, why not.” He responded distractedly and sat himself down at the table by the window. 

Once we were both sitting across from one another sipping tea, I ripped the morsel of stale bread I had found in half and set one piece in front of him apologetically. He gave me a small smile and pushed it back across the table towards me. 

“Ye need it much more than I do, lass.” He said quietly. “Besides, I’ve had breakfast already.”

I sighed and sat back in my chair, looking out the window as I started on the piece of bread in my hand. The group of nurses and pilots had dispersed now and were making their way back to the main tents of the field hospital. I felt a sense of relief that everything was up and running here, but also a stab of sorrow as I thought of all the beds filled with injured soldiers, not all of whom would make it. How could I leave them all behind?

“So, yer affiliated with the Baker Street irregulars?” He asked me, using the nickname for Britain’s special operations unit. I gave him a warning look, but hummed quietly in the affirmative. 

“Aye, thought so.” He said, setting his tea down. “They give me orders from time tae time– need pilots fer special operations, I suppose. The more I dae for ‘em, the more they come back ask’n.”

I nodded, 

“That’s generally how it goes.” I muttered quietly. I remembered back to the first year or so of the war, where us agents were very few and far between, and generally pretty unorganised, if truth be told. After the Special Operations Executive had formed in 1940 under Churchill, things had become a lot more centralised. 

After awhile, I had stopped even entertaining the idea that I would ever stop working as a spy – perhaps I knew I couldn’t, even if I tried. The assignments came one after another, and I had made a life out of lying, cheating and stealing any scrap of information I could get from the enemy. It had become an obsession. Through it all, I had always kept my eye on the ultimate prize: victory. All the while, infiltrating and undermining the enemy every opportunity I got. 

Somewhere though, in that final push to the finish line and liberating France, something in me had snapped. I had realised too late that somewhere along the line I had abandoned the rules I’d set for myself in the beginning—the ones I had designed to protect myself, and keep myself sane. I had gotten too carried away with the task, too fixated on the objective, and I had lost myself. I no longer knew how to hold back; I regularly put my body on the line and with it, my mind. 

There was no doubt that the last few years had been particularly brutal on me physically; I had spent time imprisoned and working in camps, there were long periods where I had been starved, interrogated and beaten. My exhaustion was showing and my nerves were waning, but I just kept throwing myself into the thick of it, again and again. Others had told me it was almost as though I had a death wish, and I wasn’t sure that they were entirely wrong. 

When I tried to picture a life for myself after the war, I was gripped by inexplicable dread. If I was honest with myself, the thought scared me much more than staying here and constantly risking my life, as I had done for the past six years. I didn’t know how to live a normal, quiet life. Espionage was what I knew, and holding on to secrets had become a part of me. 

My contact, who I’d been working with for years, had offered me a promotion and a position back behind a desk on home soil. There had been a few frightening occasions lately where my night terrors had been noticed by others, and after one particularly bad episode towards the end of my previous assignment, word had gotten back to him that I might be becoming a liability. It wasn’t so uncommon for people who had lived in these parts to scream in their sleep—but it would only take the wrong language to slip out at the wrong moment and my cover would be blown. Apparently, I wasn’t up to throwing myself back into the thick of proper fieldwork anymore, when that was such a real possibility. 

I knew that command had noticed the change in me lately and it had hurt when my contact told me that I needed to slow down. Only after he refused to give me any more assignments and had threatened to dismiss me, had I reluctantly agreed to take the desk job and return to London. 

I was under no illusions; I was being sent back home because I was damaged goods. But I supposed it was better than the alternative—a bullet to the back of the head by a fellow agent. 

I had finished the second piece of bread now, as the pilot an I sat in reflective silence. I noticed Nancy making her way back across the field in the direction of the cottage. 

“Should we slip out the back, then?” He was saying as I registered that Nancy was nearly at the door. I gave her one last glance and nodded, slipping the small bag which held all of my belongings over my shoulder and gesturing for him to lead the way. 

If it was one thing I was good at by now, it was saying—or not saying—goodbye. Nancy had been a good friend to me the past couple of months and I would miss her, but she would be better off forgetting about me. I told myself it was safer for her this way. 

After a short walk through some thicker terrain, we approached a small, disused German airfield where the RAF officers had stored their planes overnight. Collins ushered me over to the furthest side of the airfield where a non-distinct twin-seater plane sat waiting. He tapped it on the nose and turned to me, flashing me one of his grins. 

“She’s no’ as impressive as ma spitfire, but she’ll get the job done.” He said, before reaching into the back seat and handing me a blue bundle. “Here are yer overalls, lass.” he said, “Flight helmet and goggles are on yer seat. Have ye used a parachute before?” 

I shook my head,

“No, but I’ve had the training. I know how it works.”

“Aye, alrigh’ then. I’ll let ye put ‘em on while I dae some checks.”

He hoisted himself up into the cockpit as I pulled the overalls over my dress, tucking my small bag underneath my arm carefully, before grabbing my chute and helmet from my seat. By the time I pulled the straps over my arms he was back in front of me, geared up with his leather flight helmet on and his chute already attached. He reached out to secure the safety harness for me and I let him check me over, before taking the helmet from my hands and gently placing it on my head. His fingers lingered either side of my face. 

“Won’ ye let me kiss ye, jus’ once before we go?” He said quietly, and I couldn’t help but smile.

He leant down to bring our lips together, my face in his hands. It was a nice kiss; soft and gentle, his tongue just brushing against my lips enough for me to open up and let him in. After we broke apart he put his lips to my forehead instead, pressing them there in a silent promise to protect me. 

I was sure this little bubble of ours would burst soon enough, so I ignored the voice for once and allowed myself to enjoy the comforting effect he had on me. 

Soon after, he put his hand out to hold me steady as he helped me up into the back seat of the plane. After I was secured into the harness I started to close my canopy but he stopped me. 

“Thanks tae the allied gains this past month or so we should have a clear path out of here over friendly airspace.” He told me calmly. I nodded, slightly nervous, as he continued, “that said though Lass, there’s always a possibility we’ll need tae bail out. If I give ye the signal tha’ we’re goin’ down, open the canopy, undo yer straps and when I kick the stick forwards, the rapid negative G will throw ye through the roof. Deploy your chute just as ye were taught in training. Any questions?”

I shook my head, so he nodded and closed me in, before sealing himself into the cockpit and starting up the engine. 

I had been determined to go back with him – I had. I told myself that running away with him did not make me a coward and I would find a way to adjust to life back home. But no matter how sternly I told myself that, I couldn’t shake the terror that gripped me at the thought of being helpless, sitting behind a desk at this crucial stage in the war, while others gave their lives and after all I had contributed to get us to this point. Now that I was so close to that life, I realised I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t go back—not yet. 

Not too long after take-off, in a fog of panic and sheer stupidity, I seized my moment. 

“Florence, no!” He had screamed, as I opened the canopy and jumped from the back seat of the plane, deploying my parachute on the way down.


	4. Chapter 4

It was not the most graceful landing, I’ll admit, and although I had aimed for an open field, the wind had caught me and pushed me too far towards the trees. I landed in the thick tree cover, falling through the foliage before feeling the earth greet me hard. Gasping, I registered a sharp pain in my side, and looked down to find that a snapped tree branch had buried its way deep into my flesh, just below my ribcage. Grimacing, I removed the flight goggles from my eyes and perched them on my head, before reaching into my bag and taking out a knife, wedging the handle between my teeth and biting down hard. I tried to remain silent, biting on the handle to stop myself from screaming as I pulled the offending object out of my side. For a moment I saw stars, and I waited to catch my breath enough to cut myself free from the parachute. If anyone had seen me take the leap, or if _he_ had followed me, I needed to abandon my current position quickly. 

I wasn’t sure how long I had before I passed out, but judging by the blood spreading from my side, it was better not to waste any time. I pulled the abandoned chute towards me and hacked some material away, tying it tightly around my middle to keep pressure on the injury. I hoped that would give me some more time while I found somewhere to hide. 

I could hear a plane engine nearby and knew he would be looking for me, so I stumbled blindly through the trees, cursing as my vision was starting to blur already. 

I spotted a hollowed out tree and ducked behind it, pressing my back to it and sliding to the ground, gasping for air. I hoped I was far enough away that he couldn’t find me, but bitterly realised I wouldn’t be able to outrun him. I gripped the knife in my hands and bit back tears. Would I have to hurt him, if it came to that? _Could_ I?

 _Yes, you can._ My inner voice told me, _You’ve done it before._  
It didn’t help me feel any better. 

I closed my eyes and focused on controlling my breathing. _Please don’t find me._

After some time, I must have briefly lost consciousness, as when I woke, I heard footsteps approaching nearby. 

I waited, silently, as the person came closer to my hiding place.

Just as they were near enough, I braced myself and pounced, leaping from behind the tree to position myself behind the stalking figure, my knife placed at his throat. It was Collins, I noted with a stab of regret, and it surprised me to find that he reacted calmly to finding himself in this position. 

He glanced at me over his shoulder, “Florence, have ye gone completely mad? Ye must have a death wish, jumpin’ out on me like tha’! What were ye thinkin’?”

His brow furrowed as he spotted the blood on my hands, and he traced it down to the dark stain on my side. “Ye’re hurt.” He said softly. 

I shook him roughly to let him know I meant business. 

He sighed and faced away from me again, expression stony. I gripped him tightly, distracted by the tendons in his throat, visibly tense as he breathed in and out. I could feel his pulse under my hands, fast and steady, and almost whimpered at the strength of the life I felt beneath my fingers. Could I really extinguish it, just like this?

“Migh’ as well get it done then.” he said, pressing his throat into the knife a bit more. I gasped, the fear of hurting him suddenly springing forward, and without thinking, I dropped the knife to the ground as though it had burned me. 

I vaguely registered that there were tears in my eyes as a took a step back from him, intending to run, but before I had the chance he was on top of me, wrestling me to the ground and painfully jabbing me in my injured side. My fears had come true. Too much attachment to the pilot had ruined my chances of escaping.

I moaned, reeling in defeat and agony, vaguely registering the deep sobs that were escaping me as he held me to the ground, suppressing my cry’s with a hand over my mouth.

I had never failed to go through with it before. 

“Cecile! Cecile, listen tae me.” His unexpectedly harsh tone and use of my false name surprised me enough to pull me out of my pain for a brief moment, silencing me. He took advantage of that and pinned me down by my wrists. 

“I’ve been given clear instructions.” Collins continued quietly, his voice low and suddenly—unnervingly—cool “I am tae find ye, a young agent goin’ by the name of Cecile, and offer tae transport ye back tae London. If ye resist – if ye refuse tae come back with me – then I am to put a bullet in ye. Right here.” He held both my wrists down easily with one hand, and moved the other to touch my forehead with the pad of his thumb. I could have mistaken it for a loving caress, if not for the chilling words that had accompanied the gesture. 

My blood ran cold, I felt my eyes widen in panic. Fear froze me where I lay and I looked up at him in disbelief. 

“You— you wouldn’t!” I choked, my voice barely a whisper. I could feel a sting behind my eyes as the painful betrayal hit me hard. I had done this very thing to others more times than I could count—lovers, friends young and old. Moments ago, I had almost done it to him. But never had I expected it to happen to me.

 _So, this was what it felt like_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty dark, and contains some graphic descriptions of PTSD and other related illnesses, including PNES (psychogenic nonepileptic seizures, of which I have some experience)

To my surprise, after a few drawn-out seconds his expression slowly softened, and he loosened his grip on my wrists. 

“Jesus, Florence.” he was saying, and I hardly registered as he backed off, moving his weight from me completely and falling back to sit on the damp earth, head in his hands. He slumped his shoulders defeatedly. “Lass, wha’ have they done tae ye? Surely ye know I’ll no’ be killin’ ye.”

I was surprised at his suddenly change of heart, and when I didn’t respond, he turned his eyes up to study my face, running a hand through his hair in apparent exasperation. “If ye go—if they find out I’ve let ye—it’ll be me who’ll be gettin’ tha’ bullet. Ye know tha’, don’t ye?” 

I raised myself up onto my elbows, grimacing as the pain in my side sharply reintroduced itself to my senses. I was starting to shake uncontrollably, and my breathing was erratic. I could still feel inexplicable panic and fear. I didn’t know what to think. Was he telling me the truth? Could I trust him now? Had he not truly considered killing me in that moment? I was finding it hard to think through the increasing fog building in my head. 

“Fact is,” he continued eventually, “I’d take a bullet fer ye in a heartbeat, Florence—gladly. I dinna ken if I could say the same about Cecile, or Lena, or whoever else ye’re pretending’ tae be—but I’d dae it fer Florence.”

I felt myself beginning to calm, but I met his statement with more silence, not trusting myself to respond. His blue eyes looked into mine, pleading with me. Still, I said nothing. 

“Don’ try and push me away.” He said, quietly. “As if it’s all meant nothin’ tae ye—me, this.” He gestured at the space between us before continuing. “It’s no’ just a game tae ye, is it?” Though his words were accusing, his tone was not. And his eyes continued to search mine hopefully. 

It struck me again in that moment how young he seemed. For all his experience in in the air, his steady hand, that calmness I had seen in the face of violence, there was so still much vulnerability in him, and it surprised me. I wondered briefly if I seemed young to him as well—we were the same age, after all, but I never thought of myself that way. 

Yet still, his stubborn unwillingness to accept my betrayal puzzled me. Even though I knew he was right—somehow—his faith in me was unnerving. 

I couldn’t stand to look at those wide, searching eyes any longer, so I sighed and gingerly lowered myself back onto the ground.

“Collins,” I groaned weakly, pulling my shaking arm over my eyes in an attempt to stop my head from spinning, “It’s not like that. But, look—you need to understand—this isn’t about what I want, or how I feel. It never is.”

“What’s it about then, eh?” He was getting cantankerous, I noted briefly. 

“Oh, you know.” I sighed, “King and country—and all that.” 

He snorted. 

“Pack it in, lass. Listen tae yerself. Don’ ye know how tae be honest at all anymore? They don’ care about ye—Christ, they sent me out here tae kill ye!”

 _Fuck you_. I wanted to say, but I couldn’t bring myself to sharpen the words. The reminder that nobody cared about me cut sharply at my soul. 

He moved closer to me and I bristled. 

“Come now, don’ be like tha’.” He said softly, “I dinna ken who’s more crazy, you or me, but can ye no’ see how much I care about ye? I know ye have a heart in there somewhere—I’ve seen it. Ye cannae hide from me.”

 _He cared._

I noted with frustration that tears were forming in the back of my eyes again. Why was he always affecting me in this way?

He reached out to me then, and in my weakened state, I felt the dam wall break. I was not someone who cried often, but for the second time he held me as I wept uncontrollably, this time soothing me gently, absorbing my sadness with his touch. I let him believe he cared and allowed him the illusion that he was comforting me, when in reality, this clear display of all that I knew I couldn’t have only made it worse. He gently removed the flight helmet and goggles from the top of my head and smoothed his hands through my hair, trying to comfort me as my whole body seized up and the fog burned a searing white through my vision.

*****

Later, they would call it a seizure, triggered not by epilepsy, but by my shot nerves. When I came to, it was to his wide, concerned eyes looking down at me. He looked utterly panicked. At the time, I remember thinking weakly that he was probably misplacing some long-held guilt over leaving me behind in Poland, and I was sure he’d convinced himself that meant he cared for me. I am sure this realisation hurt me much more than any earlier betrayal would have. 

But there he was, wiping the drool from my chin and kissing my head again, whispering that everything was going to be okay. That he was going to fix me. 

Only I couldn’t make myself believe him. 

Angry at myself for indulging in self-pity, I pushed against him weakly and tried to get up, suddenly feeling nauseated, but my attempts failed and my legs wouldn’t work. When they buckled beneath me, he was there to catch me.

“Lass, ye’re hurt—and ye’re shell-shocked or something—I dinna ken.” His expression was frantic as he checked me over. “Ye had some kind of attack just now. Some kinda fit, I think. Can ye even hear me? Jesus, Florence—they said ye’d lost it, but I had no idea—look at ye shaking.” I saw him eyeing the dark blood seeping through my makeshift compress, with thinly veiled concern. “And can I take a look at tha’? Please.”

I grimaced, but allowed him access, my teeth still chattering. I felt his hands at my side, and his sharp intake of breath as he realised how much blood I’d been losing. 

“We need tae get this stitched up, love.” He said quietly, but I sensed the alarm in his voice. 

“I c-can’t go back.” I responded, insistently. My thoughts were frantic and I shook all over. “Fin, the war’s not yet won. And besides, look at me—my mind is too far gone. I’ll be no good to anyone back home. They’ll lock me up in some asylum.” 

“I won’ let them do tha’ to ye, Lass. And ye’ll do wha’ instead, stay out here an’ die? March on up tae the front and get yerself killed? Come, now. I‘ll no’ let ye do it. I’ll no’ let ye die out here, all alone like this. Let me get ye back tae the kite. I’m tying ye in this time.”

When it was clear that I wasn’t going to cooperate, he seemed to change tactics. He rose to his full height and picked up my discarded knife, silently glaring into my eyes, daring me to protest. He hesitated for a moment, then shoved the knife into his belt and moved forward to grip me hard with both hands,  
“Lass, I’m takin’ ye back tae the kite and there’s nothin’ ye can do tae stop me” He said menacingly, and he let the message sink in, his expression a warning of his words from earlier. 

If it weren’t for the pain, I would have laughed at his attempts to make me see reason and intimidate me into surrender. He clearly had learnt nothing of my stubbornness and apparent lack of self-preservation from this entire ordeal.

I understood his attempted threat in no uncertain terms—he could just kill me if he wanted to—or just leave me to die, but did I care? As a testament to my insanity, even as my vision darkened, I made one last pathetic attempt to struggle against his iron grip before sinking into unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

My limbs were heavy. I could hear—no, _feel_ —the vibrations of the engine all around me. Beneath the fog of unconsciousness I was trapped in, I used all my energy to focus on the sound, trying to discern where I was. The vehicle swooped and shuddered violently, causing my stomach to drop. I groaned when I recognised the flap of a propeller and the familiar feeling of flying—I was in the air.

——

The next time the fog lifted, there was no engine—the swooping and whirring was gone, too. I could hear faint voices—recognising Fin’s among them—but not what they were saying. I desperately tried to fight against the fog as it took me back. 

——

Silence, now. I was aware that time had passed, though I wasn’t sure how long. I was lying on a comfortable surface. It was warm. I mustered the energy to open my eyes, and at first all I could see was bright, white light. Eventually, my eyes adjusted, and I took in a stark hospital room. 

It took about 10 minutes for my strength to return, and as soon as I was able, I swung my legs to the side of the bed and quickly plucked the drip from my arm, hissing as I put pressure on the prick of blood that escaped in its wake. I stood, swaying, and grabbed the bedpost for support. Once the dizziness ceased, I quietly padded my way to the drawn curtain, pulling it aside just enough to peer out. There were rows of beds lined up along the adjacent wall, but I was not far from the door. I didn’t know where I was, but I wondered if I could slip past unnoticed in my hospital gown and stockinged feet, search for some supply cupboard or something, steal some clothes and be on my way. 

Just then, I heard a bellowing voice in a distant hallway—one that I _definitely_ recognised. I frantically looked around for a place to hide, gladly noticing that my bed was the closest to the wall. I slipped back between the curtain and the wall and hid in the space between, not ready to face the man that I knew the voice belonged to. When I heard him draw back the curtain only meters from me, I held my breath. 

“Well? Where is she!” I heard the man bark sharply, and the nurse that accompanied him squeaked. 

“She was here, sir! Just now, she was—“

I sighed, well, I couldn’t very well let the poor nurse take the brunt of his wrath, so I quietly stepped out from behind the curtain, revealing myself to Mr Winston Churchill himself. 

“Flo!” He bellowed, and clapped me hard on the back, almost knocking me off my feet. “Jolly good to see you again.”

I grimaced, suddenly aware of a splitting headache, worsening by the second “you too, sir.” 

Well and truly trapped now, I dropped down to sit on the edge of my bed, gesturing for him to take the visitor’s chair. 

“I’d offer you some tea, but—”

“Ah, no need my dear.” He let out a booming laugh. “I’ll not be staying long. I’ve dropped by to check in on you—it’s the least I could do, after all. Despite the annoying and _incessant whining_ of my staff!” He said the final part in the direction of—and loudly enough for the words to travel through the curtain—presumably, where said staff hung back nervously. 

“I daresay, I haven’t seen you since you were about sixteen. Awful news about your father—as you know he was like a brother to me. Got each other out of some sticky situations back in Omdurman.” I nodded mutely, aware from childhood experiences that he had served alongside my father in the second Boer War. Another thing which I knew from my childhood about the man that he would not expect me to do any of the talking—he would do enough of that for the both of us.

“But died for none-better-a-cause, good fellow!” He continued, “A fine officer and great nobleman. And we’ll soon be rid of them—mark my words, victory will soon be upon us!” He whipped out his cigar, as he was known to do, and a rare silence filled the room momentarily as he lit it. 

“Colin will be along shortly.” He announced after stowing the matches, puffing away, “And I’d best be off before they kick me out with this thing. He gestured animatedly at the cloud of smoke surrounding his person. Jolly good to see you safe and well, Miss Szabek.” I stood again gingerly as he approached me again, patting me on the back gentler this time, before thrusting open the curtains. I tried not to scoff at his incredulous assessment that I was ‘well’. 

“Oh, and Flo,” he added loudly, as though he was addressing the whole room, “I’ll see to it that you receive the George Cross for your downright heroism in the face of extreme danger. As I’m sure you know—your actions were crucial to liberating our sister nation. France owes you a debt—and so do we. Your mother would have been exceptionally proud.” With that, he was gone, leaving a plume of smoke in his wake and a handful of staff members stumbling and clamouring to follow him. 

I guess that was that. With the press sure to notice his visit and now the conspicuous decoration of GC, there would be no hope of ever returning to the anonymity required for espionage again. I felt a small, inexplicable feeling of loss—but noted with surprise that a feeling twice the size was that of a weight being lifted from my shoulders. 

Just before my superior officer, Major-General Colin Gubbins, appeared, I thought momentarily of Fin. 

Gubbins entered my makeshift room through the already open curtain, and I sprung to my feet, standing to attention. As I saluted the head of the SOE—it struck me with irony how much more formality this necessitated than that of my visit from the PM. 

“Major-General Gubbins, sir.” I said,

“At ease, agent.” He replied, in a much quieter voice than my previous guest. “Now, and forever more, as you please—but especially now.” He eyed the loose cord from my drip with concern. 

“Miss Szabek, have you gone and unplugged yourself from that?” He shook his head, exiting the curtained space once more to call the nurse. 

My little corner of the hospital had become somewhat of a thoroughfare, and after the flustered nurse had fetched a fresh needle and bag of saline, I decided not to protest as she sat me back into bed. I was sure that my series of visitors had caused quite the stir to her orderly environment, and I didn’t want to make her job any harder. I gave her a look of apology as Major-General Gubbins took the visitor chair. 

“Where’s Fi—“ I stopped myself, swallowing hard, “Collins—Flight Lieutenant Collins.” I asked him, flinching slightly as the nurse stuck the drip back into my arm. “The pilot who brought me from France.”

“He’s been sent back on active duty, Miss Szabek.” Gubbins replied offhandedly and I tried to hide my disappointment. 

In truth, my stomach had completely sunk at this news. I was worried for him, but I also felt that I needed him. This feeling was foreign to me.

”I’ll need the address of the base he’s currently stationed at.” I said neutrally, my voice giving nothing away, “I need to send him my thanks for getting me back in one piece.” 

“Yes, yes—of course.” He replied, before bringing his chair up close to my bed and pulling out some paper and a pen. And so began the inquisition. 

I answered all Gubbins’ questions as he leant forwards, jotting things down as we conversed in almost a whisper. I knew that we would need to talk more, in a more secure location as soon as I was fit enough, but for now I told him only the most pressing and non-sensitive details of what things were like at the front. Before too long, he left me to rest. 

I needn’t have worried about obtaining Fin’s address. His first letter arrived the next morning. He wrote that he would keep his promise not to let them take me to an asylum—and I actually laughed aloud. I was not as worried about that anymore. I had not, to my knowledge, had any terrors while I’d been back yet. In fact, I had been sleeping quite well with access to the drugs they were giving me. He responded the following week that he would still like it if I could stay with his mother in Scotland until at least he was next due back on leave.

I had been granted 14 days of survivors’ leave after my discharge, so long as I spent one day in London to debrief my superiors in the Cabinet War Rooms about what information I had learned from being behind enemy lines for so long. When I returned to work, that’s where I was to spend the remainder of the war.

I reluctantly agreed to Fin’s request—but only because I had nowhere else to go. I was not ready to face my family’s estate just yet and had no family of my own left. Perhaps a trip out of the city might do me some good.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, if anyone is still reading this, would you mind letting me know what you think? I haven’t had any feedback on this story so far and it’s getting quite long. I have many more chapters planned but I’m not sure if anyone is liking how it’s going? How am I doing? Any thoughts or criticism (preferably constructive) you have would be so greatly appreciated! X

I was up and about as much as I could be over the next few days, making a show of my strength to the nurses so that they would report my progress to the doctor. All that was done was to reinforce my insistence that I was a fast healer. In the end, it was with great self-satisfaction that I managed to convince the doctor to discharge me two days earlier than expected.

I would have discharged myself by now, but unfortunately it seemed that the ministry knew me too well. After his visit, Major General Gubbins had written to stipulate that removing myself from the ward for any reason, without the express permission of the medical staff, would result my having to face a court-martial. 

I was effectively trapped here, then—and the feeling of being tied down was one I absolutely _loathed_. 

Despite brushing off the residual pain of my injury as much as possible, it had still been the better part of two weeks before I managed to convince the doctor to reluctantly write me a discharge permit. I wrote a hurried letter to Fin, and then another to Mrs. Collins to tell her when to expect me, as Fin had instructed me to do. He was due for leave soon, and I found myself looking forward to seeing him again. While I found many other parts of my new situation terrifying, I had at least come to find that the idea of Collins had a calming effect on me.

When Thursday morning finally came, I left the ward without a backward glance, taking the bus to Whitehall. I planned to alight near the foreign office and walk the rest of the way to King Charles Street. Having heard about the destruction of London from various descriptions during the Blitz, I took a seat at the top of the bus in the open air so that I would have a good view. 

Despite what I’d been told, nothing could have prepared me for seeing the horrifying results of the bombing raids on the city of London in the light of day. I sat in stunned silence, taking in the devastation of a city I had once known like the back of my hand. Its streets were now almost unrecognisable; once familiar buildings now in various states of ruin and repair. Other structures were simply missing entirely—nothing but blackened, levelled voids where whole families had once lived.

It was just after 0830 when I arrived at the bunker. I showed my identification to the wardens at Clive Steps, and was swiftly led down into the underground offices. Despite the relatively early hour, the working day was already in full swing down below, a flurry of tapping typewriters and the hustle and bustle of staff making for an atmosphere that was both productive and... optimistic. The way they all moved around the underground space—conversing deliberately and confidently—with an efficiency refined by almost six years of Britain at war. 

I briefly wondered what they would all do after the war was over—return to their humdrum lives? Would they find it difficult to face the idea, as I did?

I forced these thoughts from my head as a middle-aged secretary with a tired but friendly face greeted me in the hall with a smile.

“Miss. Skarbek,” She said, taking my coat, “please follow me.” The woman led me down a couple more flights of stairs and along a brightly lit corridor before arriving at a door. The door, which was otherwise nondescript, possessed a scrawled phrase above it, slapped on rather haphazardly and informally in bright red paint. _MINISTRY OF UNGENTLEMANLY WARFARE._

“A sort of _joke_ among the gentlemen here.” The woman said, following my gaze and offering me a small smile as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Come in now, and take a seat.” She lead me into the small room and pulled out a chair. “I’ll let the others know you’re here.” 

With that, she left me alone, and I gripped the back of the proffered chair with white knuckles. I went to sit down, but found the idea of sitting still profoundly discomforting, so instead, I abandoned the chair altogether. I slowly began to wander the circumference of the room, making my way around the large table, which was definitely too large for the small room. The bulky piece of solid oak furniture was cramped in the centre, making one feel even more claustrophobic, if that was even possible, given that the lack of windows only served as a constant reminder of ones vicinity, deep underground. There were maps spread out all over the working surface, and black and white photographs with coded reports lined the surrounding painted brick walls like wallpaper. 

My highly trained mind couldn’t help but take in every detail, commit useless pieces of information to memory; names, dates, faces—all stored away in my mind. I just couldn’t switch it off—not even if I tried. The photographs, especially, made my blood turn cold—portraits of other agents, all seeming to watch me with their colourless, beguiling faces. Some had crosses over their faces, or the word DECEASED stamped over them in bright red. 

I searched the faces until I spotted my own, tucked away to the side in a section labeled ‘INACTIVE’. Reaching out, I absently ran my fingers over the edge of my photograph, hardly recognising the young woman looking back at me. The portrait was a few years old, taken when I had first arrived in France, and seeing this unflinching silver likeness of myself now gave me some discomfort. I had such confidence then—I’d been so certain of my cause—and my determination had been stronger than ever. Where was that certainty now?

Collins’ words rang in my ears. _Lass, what have they done tae ye?_

Forcing myself to move on, I turned my attention to the collection of aerial reconnaissance photographs. I studied them closely, thinking briefly of Collins and wondering if any of these were his. I recognised many of the areas in the photographs—the landscape of Europe ravaged by the war—having spent my life in these places for years now, the photographs seemed to effortlessly transport me back there. Before I knew it, my fists were clenched by my sides and I had returned to my default state of stony unease. My hands began to tremble slightly...

I let out a breath and squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my shaking palms into them. _Get a grip, Florence_ , I tried to remind myself that I was no longer in enemy territory. I was home. I was safe. 

And yet, I wasn’t sure that I’d ever be able to let go completely. I couldn’t _imagine_ it. I forced myself to take a seat at the table to try and calm down. 

Moments later, I had gained control of myself once more and heard someone at the door. My head snapped up as the tall, immaculately groomed General Major Gubbins entered, bringing with him a team of other men, none of whom I recognised. I rose to my feet as they entered one by one, and when I stood, it was to a loud eruption of cheers. Too say I was taken aback would be an understatement. I was used to my work being thankless and unattributable, and although the ends achieved were for the greater good, I wasn’t proud of many things I’d done to achieve them. 

I felt lost, searching the smiling faces in the room as they congratulated me, as if in slow motion. Many came forward to shake my hand, and pat me on the back as the PM had done when he’d visited me at the hospital. How much did they know about what I’d seen—the things I’d done?

To receive such open praise for my achievements now was alien and bewildering—I was decidedly uncomfortable about it. I realised then that this may have been one of the things I’d been apprehensive about coming home to. I had the sudden urge to run back outside the way I’d come. 

As if realising my discomfort, Gubbins ordered the room to quieten down—telling them all to give me some space and to get to work. I tilted my head towards him in silent appreciation and he winked at me. 

We spread out around the table. Some brief introductions were made, and I remained on my feet as they all sat down, grateful that Gubbins hadn’t seemed to notice my reluctance to sit as well. It was time to get to work—we had a war to win.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but more coming soon!

After a few hours of pouring over the maps on the table, I had passed on all the most valuable information I knew to the other occupants of the room and plotted out the locations of caves and salt mines where I knew the Nazis were storing their gold and the plunder of Europe. Gubbins confirmed that one or two of these had already been uncovered by the Americans as they worked their way through liberating Europe and the satisfaction of this news was indescribable. 

Eventually, a bit weakened from my still-healing injury, I found myself relaxed enough to sit down eat meals with the others. We ate together inside the room so that we could continue working, drawing up plans on where gaps in our intelligence still was, and where the executive should send agents next. 

I soon realised that I seemed to be the most knowledgeable in the room when it came to the logistics of positioning agents—especially in ways that allowed the executive to gather intelligence on both the Germans as well as our own allies. This surprised me. I had always assumed I was taking orders from a group of people who knew what they were doing—but it seemed I had developed some more valuable skills over the years spent getting to know both sides on the ground.

Gubbins came and went throughout the course of the day, each time returning with more questions and asking for my judgement on the validity of other intelligence he had received from his sources. He was making decisions, I realised, based on _my_ judgment, and it felt strange being trusted with such high-level strategy for the first time. My judgement now influenced where fellow agents would be stationed, and having once been at the execution end of decisions like these—presumably made in this very room—was a whole new perspective. It was empowering. I felt encouraged by how natural leadership felt to me in this context. Maybe I could be useful behind a desk after all.

It was after midnight by the time I was finally released from questioning. Gubbins had left a few hours ago and although others had asked me if I had somewhere to stay, I’d lied and said yes—not wanting to be a burden on anyone or reliant on anyone but myself. I planned to spend the night walking to Victoria Station and get the first train north in the morning.

Overall, my impression from the day had been that the SOE was winding down, along with the war, and there had been talk of disbanding it for good. Eventually, I figured, it would probably be absorbed into MI6, although Lord Selborne was trying to make a case for it to continue beyond the war. I suspected Churchill would likely delay making a decision either way—at least until victory was ours—perhaps even until after the next election. Either way, it felt like if I wanted to make any real difference in the future, the best option would probably be to move across to MI6 after the war. 

These thoughts of the end of an era made me strangely melancholy as I wandered the deserted streets in the general direction of Pimlico. It was too late to get the train up into the Scottish Borders to stay with Mrs. Collins, as I’d promised Fin I would, so I had decided to take a walk to my parent’s old flat to see what was left of it. If it was completely in ruin, as I suspected it would be, then at least I would know. 

To be honest, I would have avoided the place entirely, but seeing as it wasn’t much of a detour on the way to Victoria Station, I reasoned that I might as well face it tonight. I knew I would have to visit the place eventually, so putting it off wouldn’t do me any good—and I had nowhere to be. 

After a brisk fifteen minute walk, my heart was in my throat as I rounded the corner into my old neighbourhood. I was met with row after row of missing townhouses in various states of ruin, and my breath hitched in my throat as I caught sight of the pile of blackened ash and debris where my parents’ townhouse once stood. It was completely gone. 

Despite suspecting what I’d find here, the sight of this sorry place made me balk. I had to swallow the lump in my throat as I approached the site cautiously. 

It struck me all at once while I surveyed the ruins of my family home, that I had lost my family itself. The happiness of any memories I did cherish—my mother playing the piano and singing in the living room, the smell of tobacco as my father sat smoking his pipe in his armchair or reading the paper at the breakfast table—were now lost to the sad and blackened rubble. I traversed the rope cordoning off the site and kicked around in the neat pile of swept aside ash, hoping to find some evidence in the darkness of the life I’d once had here. There was none to be found. 

There were no memories now but my own of that time—no living person to remember these things but me. No mementos or material belongings that could remind me of the life I had lived here. Once again, despite being back in the place I had considered my home, I felt very alone. 

Suddenly, I turned away and didn’t look back. I all but ran from that place, keeping my head down against the cold and with my hands buried deep in my pockets. The rebuilding of London was, by all accounts, already underway, but the desolate state it was in only served to add to my sorrow. I couldn’t reach the Scottish Borders soon enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the Borders. Hope you enjoy. More angst ahead (sorry) but I promise Collins will be making another appearance soon. 
> 
> I also heavily edited Fin and Florence’s first encounter in Chapter 1 (I’m forever re-writing parts of that chapter as I get to know the characters more—just can’t let it rest).

When the first train headed north the following morning, I was on it. I was on a mission to find the small house Collins had grown up in and described to me all those years ago in Poland, and I had mapped out the address he’d given me in his last letter. I had little in the way of a plan after my train crossed into the Scottish Borders. 

There was scarce sleep to be had on the train, but I was determined to fight off any residual tiredness for the time being—I had gone without sleep for much longer than this. Luckily, the stranger I found and hitched a ride from the station talked enough to distract me from nodding off in their service vehicle, and despite the niggling of my stitched side, I was able hobble the rest of the way to my destination: a semi-rural property on the outskirts of the small town of Melrose. 

Arriving at Collins’ childhood home early that afternoon seemed strangely intimate. He had described it to me in detail, all those years ago, and I instantly began to recognise parts of his description as I made my way up the winding driveway. Before me stood a small farmhouse with a blue door and a brass knocker. It was strange to see it before me—I could scarcely have believed I would ever visit, back when I’d first heard him talk about it in ‘39. 

There was a patch of thistle I had passed by in the driveway, which I recognised as the one he often crashed his bicycle into as a boy; I also knew without looking that across the moorland at the back of the cottage there was an old rusty shed which housed his father’s biplane—unused since his death. Collins planned to fix it up and fly it again someday, after the war had been won. 

Despite knowing all of these details from his stories, which for some reason I had clung to all these years, I checked the address and the map two more times before taking a deep breath and tapping on the brass knocker.

When his mother opened the door, a tiny woman with a warm smile, I knew for certain I had found the right house. I tried not to show my immediate surprise at the likeness to her son. They had the same straight, pointed nose, kind blue eyes and straw-coloured hair—though he must have inherited his considerable height from his father. 

“Hello, love—ye must be Florence.” She smiled warmly, and crinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes in the same way that her son’s did. I felt indebted to this woman—feeling that I should like to thank her for creating such a person as Finley Collins—the man who had been so patient with me; who had, so far, managed to save me from myself. Instead, I smiled awkwardly and twisted the handle of my bag in my hands. 

“Yes, Mrs. Collins—er, ma’am, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I truly can’t thank you enough for opening your home to me...“

She hushed me quickly, taking my bag and ushering me inside. 

“Please, love—come on in. Ye look like ye haven’t slept all week. And ye can call me Ma, if ye like.”

I followed silently as the small woman led me into the hall, taking my coat and hanging it by the door. I wondered what kind of person would take her son’s friend in like this, no questions asked. I wondered how much he had told her about me. 

“It’s no’ a big house, so I don’ think ye’ll need tae worry ‘bout gettin’ lost in ‘ere.” She chuckled, “Best not tae wander too far from the house though, at least until ye’ve got ye bearings. With the moors an’ the weather, we don’ wan’ ye gettin’ intae any trouble out there.” She paused to look at me, “Lass—ye’re so pale, are ye feelin’ alrigh’?” 

I gave her what was I hoped was a reassuring smile. 

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am—just some pulled stitches, I suspect. It’s nothing I can’t patch up myself.”

Her eyes were narrowed, but she seemed to accept my response. 

“Aye, by the looks of ye, I expect ye’re probably only interested in a hot meal and a good sleep fer now. I’ll just show ye straight tae yer room, love.” She turned back to lead the way. 

“You have a beautiful home.” I responded politely, as she took me through the cottage, and I meant it. The fire was lit in the neat little living room and there were fresh flowers scattered around on the tables. The worn carpet and well-loved furniture was warm and inviting, and the decor soft and colourful. In so many ways, it spoke of Fin—there was evidence of him everywhere, despite his absence.

“Finley told me tae give ye his old room.” She said, showing me down a corridor to the bedroom at the furthest back corner of the house. “Says it’s got the best view across the moors, an’ ye’ll get some privacy back here—there’s a seperate washroom.”

I thanked her with the most gracious smile that I could muster as she showed me inside, putting my bag down on the end of a rickety steel-spring bed frame, replete with a lumpy, but comfortable-looking single mattress and fresh linen. I was truly exhausted, and it was finally catching up to me. 

“I’ll let ye get settled in, love. Ye can feel safe here. There are fresh towels in the washroom and hot water fer a bath.” She pointed out the adjoining WC cupboard, with a basin and tiny clawfoot tub crammed into the small space. “I’ve made some soup fer when ye’re ready. And I’ve some freshly-baked bread comin’ out the oven soon.” 

I couldn’t express my gratitude to her enough as she left, clicking the door shut behind her. Surveying the room from where I stood, I could see a neat little writing desk opposite the bed with a large window above, overlooking the ghostly moorland beyond the farmhouse. The moors seemed to stretch on and on, before fading into a ghostly white mist. I knew that on a clearer day, I’d be able to see as far as the mountains from this room. 

An old bookshelf by the door was filled with a vast array of books—from novels to school textbooks and detailed aviation manuals. The tomes and paperbacks sat framing a few carefully constructed model planes perched in available spaces between, alongside various other trinkets which must have held some significance to Fin, the boy who grew up here. I wandered over to the bookshelf, running my hands along the wings of one of the planes. It was as though I was looking in on a memory, a bystander in someone else’s dream; strange, yet somehow familiar all the same. The image of a pale-haired boy with bright blue eyes sprung into my mind and I smiled.

Although I longed for a long soak in a hot bath, my still-healing injury meant that I had to settle for perching myself on the side, dangling my legs into the warm water and using a washcloth to carefully clean the wound and redress it. As I suspected, some stitches had pulled and I’d bled a bit into the first layer of dressing, but I’d seen and endured much worse. 

After enjoying the water for as long as it stayed warm, I made my way to the kitchen, where Mrs Collins was bustling about. I helped her to set two places at the table, and though I had many burning questions for her, we both maintained a comfortable silence as she dished up two bowls of soup. I sat gingerly across from her and tried to hide the tremor in my hand as I raised the spoon of soup to my lips. If the older woman noticed, she didn’t mention it.

“Finley told me ye are a very close friend of his.” She said quietly, “Said ye helped each other through some rough patches a few times. I wan’ tae thank ye fer that.”

I hummed in amusement at Fin’s description of what had happened between us, swallowing quickly to respond. 

“Trust me, ma’am, your son has helped me far more than I have helped him.” I said, hiding my grin with my napkin and hoping she wouldn’t notice there was more to it than that. 

“Well, ye’re not the firs’ of my son’s friends who he’s sent here to stay.” She smiled warmly, pausing to push me some bread, before continuing. “The last one, Will Farrier, flew with Finley over Dunkirk back durin’ the evacuation. He spent a few years in a POW camp—some castle near Leipzig.”

I shuddered. 

“That’d be Colditz, ma’am. Probably the highest security Nazi prison camp in existence.” I leant forwards, impressed. “You say he escaped?”

“Aye. He wasnae a talkative fellow, but Finley told me tha’ he and a few others managed tae cut through the bars on a window an’ made it all the way tae Switzerland.” She shook her head, “Poor sod was a shell of a man when he arrived here—hardly spoke at all. But he’s a dear friend o’ Finley’s and I ken it comforts my boy tae know his friends are in safe hands. He likes to take care of people, my Finley.” 

I smiled, having finished all the soup my stomach would allow for now and laid my spoon down. 

“He certainly does.” I told her, “You must be proud of him.”

“Aye—course I am.” She replied, but I noticed another emotion flash through her as she focused on her bowl again. She was worried for him, I realised. 

“He said he was up for some leave soon.” I said, trying to lighten the subject. “Any idea when?”

She shook her head. 

“We were hopin’ fer Sat’day but it’s always hard tae say.”

A heavy silence settled between us as we both thought of the man who should be here with us, not wanting to imagine where he was instead.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a roll thanks to your lovely feedback and encouragement. Chapter 11 should be up in the next 24hrs as well!
> 
> This chapter is a little different, hope you don’t mind a different point of view ;)

It was late morning by the time I got the all-clear from my CO to leave the airfield at Duxford. I had returned from my last sortie across the channel the night before and had been up at dawn, today being the day I’d been coming up for some leave. Unfortunately, there had been a few new pilot officers I had to see through their training drills before they’d let me go, so I’d stayed to help out, itching for the time to pass quicker. I remembered when I’d shared the young pilots’ hunger for action—the youthful naivety. I hoped this younger group wouldn’t need to see any at all and that they would each come to mature at their own pace in a time of peace—unlike me.

We were always outnumbered, back when I was a PO myself. It seemed like only a matter of time before one of them would shoot you down. After the Battle of Britain stretched on, it was clear that _everyone_ had a breaking point. I kept waiting for mine—kept watching for the signs. I’d see it happen to the others—other pilots losing their heads before takeoff, in the air, in their beds at night. You could see it when one of your pals just wasn’t himself anymore. He’d go quiet, morose, non-talkative. And you’d think, _poor lad, I don’t think he’s going to last much longer_ —and then he’d go down too—and you’d be right. 

I had just kept on flying—kept waiting for my time to come. Kept my kill count rising. Kept shooting down planes. I killed so many—bombers, fighters—watched so many of them hit the ground. It was exciting at first, but once you heard the ring of bullets in your ear, tearing up your aircraft, there was no fun about it at all. Once the exhaustion set in—deep in your bones—you almost wished for a quick and merciful death. Some tried to escape from the furnace of their burning cockpits but they couldn’t. Others tried to bail—too late. I knew I didn’t deserve to be here until the end. There were so many others who were much better Pilots than I was who didn’t make it. We didn’t even have time to mourn each other—you just erased the name of your Squadron mate off the board and carried on. Maybe you’d be next. 

I should have really drowned down in the channel at Dunkirk—or on that sortie when my Spit went up in flames—I had only just baled out in time, but not quick enough to avoid the scars. 

As a sort of penance for my CO that morning, I swung it so I could take one of the training aircrafts to fly myself back home in. There were lasting benefits to having flown through the Battle of Britain—being one of ‘the few’ as Churchill had coined us. We had seen the country through her hardest days, and we had saved her. There was always an aircraft to be loaned to those of us who had far to travel to get home. 

Making it back to Florence was my sole focus as I started up the tinny engine and the ground crew cleared me for takeoff. The rickety old moth was worlds away from a Spitfire—un-armoured, clunky and sluggish to respond to my impatient demands. There was nothing more braw than the Merlin engines and gracile angles of the Spitfire, and the difference between the two machines was like night and day. I wrestled with her to amble around to the runway point. But aye, it still beat taking the train.

It was a testament to how close we were to having the Jerries defeated, that you’d catch me flying this kite up north. It had little more than a wee layer of cloth for armourment and bollocks in the way of ammunition. If I was caught up here by an ME109 or even a 110, I’d be going down in flames before you could say ‘Heil Hitler’.

With a salute of thanks to the airmen I was away and in the skies, headed north for the sad girl I had met all those years ago in Poland. She had completely enraptured me then, and in all these years, there had been nobody who had even come close to evoking in me the same level of reverence I held for her. She had changed on the surface in the years since I’d met her, she was somehow even more fierce and beautiful now—but I could tell that the same girl was there, deep inside. The one I had stupidly left behind at that godforsaken lake back in ‘39. 

She was strong—and I knew that up until now, she had been used to relying on only herself. She was capable of more than I could ever hope to be. But she was also broken. Her inherent stubbornness and recklessness was less endearing now than it was dangerous, and the things she had seen and lost... I was sure I couldn’t begin to imagine. 

There was something cold and detached about shooting a plane down from the sky—the parachuting figures as close as I came to seeing the men we called ‘the enemy’. And even then, once they jettisoned from their planes we hardly considered them enemies anymore. They were just men in parachutes—except of course if you were part of 303 Squadron; the Poles had reason to hate them either way. To them, the only good Jerry was a dead Jerry—they’d take down a parachuting man just as quickly as one in a plane. It was all the same to them. 

But even firing a gun at someone from a distance or returning fire during battle was altogether something else to the type of cold-blooded killing Florence had needed to do during her service. I had heard of female spies who strangled grown men to death with nothing more than a scarf or a shoelace, I knew that her knife and pistol were always by her side. 

And through it all, All these years, she had been alone. Never had she the support of a Squadron or Battalion at her back—she never allowed anyone to get too close to her. Of course it had taken its toll on her. 

But now she had me. 

I had been dropping my altitude for sometime, and as I spotted the familiar landmarks which would point me towards the landing strip on my late father’s land, I began to level the kite’s wings with the ground, dropping lower still to line up the landing. In no time I was grounded, and a part of me was pleased to find that I could still land the old bird pretty smoothly, despite being rusty with her.

No sooner had I shut off the engine and stilled the prop, than I spotted my mother rushing across the grass towards me. I knew from the look on her face that something was seriously wrong with Florence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More drama and angst, I’m afraid—but we do get a dramatic reunion

“Ma, what’s happened? Where’s Florence?” I called out as I vaulted from the aircraft and ran to her, gripping her arm to support her and she rushed towards me.

“Finley!” She said breathlessly “I heard ye plane an’ I came straigh’ out. She’s in yer old room and she’s—” I didn’t wait to hear more, tearing off in the direction of the southside of the house as my mother called out behind me

“I canny move ‘er, Fin. She won’ wake up!” 

I legged it up the back steps and into the house, turning a sharp left once I was inside and making my way down the familiar path to my childhood room as fast as my legs would take me. When I reached the bedroom door I threw myself inside, eyes darting around as I took in the scene before me. 

The bed was a mess, but there was nobody in it—no sign of Florence at all. The only other sign that something was awry at all was at the base of the bookshelf, where one of my old model biplanes lay splintered on the floor. I walked towards it, confused—that’s when I noticed the open door to the washroom. 

Florence was lying on the floor inside, seemingly unconscious in her nightgown, her head framed by towels. There was blood coming from a cut on her temple, where it looked like she’d hit the ground or the tub. I fell to my knees beside her and immediately checked her pulse. It was strong and steady, and I let out a small yelp of relief just as my mother entered the room behind me. 

“I’ve called the doctor, he’s on his way.” She was saying anxiously as I felt Florence’s clammy forehead with the back of my hand. Her skin was on fire. 

“All I could do was put some towels around ‘er head to stop ‘er doin’ any more damage to ‘erself.” My mother continued, “She was convulsing when I found ‘er—looked like some sort o’ _fit_ or summin. There was nae much I could do...”

“Aye,” I said knowingly “she has ‘em from time tae time—Ma, ye did righ’ by ‘er. Please fetch me a bowl o’ cool water and some rags so I can try an’ cool ‘er down. She’s really burnin’ up.”

“Dammit, Florence.” I muttered as my mother rushed to the kitchen. I turned her over as gently as I could and cradled her head gently in my lap, trying not to think about how she moved like a rag doll. I tapped her lightly on either cheek, just enough to try and bring her around, “Come on, come on.” 

There was very little in the way of a response, so I gathered her lithe form in my ams and carried her to the bed. She was extremely light, and I was sure she hadn’t been eating nearly enough these past couple of days. 

I settled her head down gently on the pillow just as my mother returned with the water.

“Bandages please, Ma—fer ‘er head.” I said quietly as she handed me the bowl and my mother nodded, admirably not showing any signs of fluster, before leaving from the room again quickly. 

I pulled up the chair from my old desk and sat closely at Florence’s side, wetting a cloth and writing it out before bringing it to her temple and washing the blood from it gently. I took it as a good sign when she flinched away from my touch ever so slightly, and I soothed her gently. 

“It’s me, Florence—it’s Fin.” I spoke gently in her ear, “Shh, love, ye’re okay. I’ve got ye—ye’re safe.” I felt her relax marginally and almost cried with gratitude. She could hear me. She trusted me.

“It’s gonnae be okay.”

***

_**Four hours earlier...** _

Terror. I woke in a cold sweat, vaguely aware that I had been crying out in my sleep; my nightgown was drenched and so was my hair, slicked right from my forehead to the back of my neck. My entire body trembled uncontrollably and my lungs screamed for air. I tried to cry out again, but no sound would come. 

I practically tore myself from the bed, eyes wide with panic as I tried to ascertain where I was. Stumbling around aimlessly, I breathed fast and hard until I bumped into a wooden shelf, knocking something off and hearing it splinter at my feet. My heart pounded as I stilled, waiting to see if my pursuer had heard the noise. I silently dropped to my hands and knees—at least I had the advantage of the darkness. Yes... I could hide from my attacker. 

I was sure there was someone after me, I just couldn’t remember who—or why...

Come to think of it, where was I? I felt for the small object I had knocked over, frantically snatching up the thing and holding it close to my face. The moonlight revealed part of a plywood structure—a tiny splintered wing connected to a fuselage with a propeller. It was model plane. 

A plane. Collins. 

_Collins_. The memory of my whereabouts came flooding back to me at once. I was in Scotland. I was in Fin’s childhood home. I was safe. It was just a dream. 

I dropped the broken plane and stumbled to the washroom, turning on the faucet at the basin with shaking hands and splashing my face with the icy water. The shock of the cold did not, however, have the desired effect—I still felt numb. I turned the water off and tried desperately to pull myself back to reality and away from the brink of the impending attack, but it seemed that my body had other ideas.

I began to lose the ability to support myself, leaning weakly against the basin and staring helplessly at the ghostlike face looking back at me in the mirror. My reflection, lit by the pale moonlight was the image of pure fear—my terrified expression distorting my features horribly. I looked like a corpse. 

A corpse. 

Before I could stop myself, images of the corpses of strangers and friends alike flashed vividly across my mind. Their faces were distorted in a terror not unlike my own. Things I had seen which were burned into my memory like scars resurfaced in the darkness, and though I knew, _knew_ that I was safe here—my body refused to follow the logic of my mind. 

A primal fear had settled itself deep into my very core, and there was no escaping it. I continued to gasp for air as I sank to the floor, trying with all my might to force the vice-like terror from my body and regain control of my limbs—of anything at all—but they would not yield to my will. Slowly, with every second feeling like an hour, I lay there, twisting and writhing on the floor, as I began to feel the inevitable coming on.

Sure enough, all at once I felt my jaw clench impossibly tight and my whole body seize. Once again, I knew no more.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florence finally works some things out in this chapter—I think for the better!
> 
> I’m still not done with this story and there’ll be more to come. Thanks for sticking with me so far—it would mean a lot to me to know what you think x

“It’s gonnae be okay.”

His voice cut through my consciousness and I clung to it like a lifeline. Finley Collins, the only person, it seemed, who I had come to trust. He was more than just a person to me, really, he had come to be my home. I leaned into him even more, my body shivering, but for the first time since I had been back on British soil, my mind was at ease. It was good to have a friend—an ally who I could rely on. Someone I could trust as my body slipped away from me again. 

*****

Voices. I strained to hear them clearly, and still could only grasp the broken pieces of a hushed conversation. _Pale on arrival. Pulled stitches. Barely eaten a thing._

_Doctor._

I tried to open my eyes, but the energy it required was still too much. I couldn’t go back to a hospital. I couldn’t be separated from—

Wait. Where was Collins? 

“F-Fin.” I managed to croak, and although it was barely audible, I heard the rest of the room fall quiet immediately. 

In an instant, I felt him by my side. His warm hand gripping my own and another sweeping the hair from my forehead. 

“Florence, I’m here. Don’ worry, lass. I’m no’ goin’ anywhere.” There was a pause, and I heard him continue more sternly, as if to drive the point home with the other occupants of the room. “An’ neither are you.”

I felt him squeeze my hand gently as he rose to his feet again, addressing the doctor,

“Ye can check her stitches in a minute, doc—righ’ now, the lass needs tae eat. Ma, would ye please bring some water and some soup? She’s fair tae wastin’ away.”

I finally managed to open my eyes in time to see him all but chase them out of the room. His mother hesitated for a moment, looking warily between her son and me, clearly alarmed by how affected he seemed by my current state, before following the doctor out.

It was a difficult task, but with Fin’s help I did manage to eat something. He slid into the bed behind me, propping me up with his body and using one hand to support my head, the other holding the spoon and coaxing my mouth to open. It was all I could do to stay conscious, but I focused on his steady breathing behind me and his voice, helping me through every spoonful with his patient hands and gentle words of encouragement.

*****

The next time I woke, the shadows in the room were being chased away by the cool glow of morning light. I could easily tell it was just past dawn from the sound of the first birds and the crispness in the air. Collins was by the bed, asleep in the chair, his arm propped up under his head. At least he seemed to have changed out of his uniform.

As silently as I could, I slowly swung my legs around, putting my bare feet on the cold floor. Carefully, testing my strength, I rose to my feet and was surprised to find that I could stand without support. It seemed that some of my strength had returned. 

I quietly made my way to the bathroom, closing the door behind me so I could regroup in private. I discovered that the stitching of my wound had been repaired and it had been redressed; I was also wearing a fresh night gown. Briefly, I couldn’t help but wonder who had changed me and felt a strange feeling in my stomach when I realised it was probably Collins, or at the very least, his apparent refusal to leave my side meant that he must have been present. 

I spent a few moments in the bathroom washing up, but it wasn’t long after turning off the water and drying my face that I heard a soft knock. 

“Florence, are ye okay in there?” came Collins’ voice through the door. A stab of embarrassment shot through me. I was _fine_. I wasn’t some damsel in distress—and I did _not_ need him hovering over me at all times. The idea of him thinking I was in some way _weak_ was too shameful to contemplate. 

I sighed. I supposed he was entitled to worry, though—given the state he must have found me in last time I’d tried to use the bathroom on my own. Putting my embarrassment aside, I squared my shoulders and opened the door.

“Yes,” I started to say, not meeting his eyes and my mask of cold unflappability carefully in place, “Look, Collins—thank you for your concern. I’m awfully sorry and I’m grateful for the care you’ve shown me—but I can assure you that I’m now quite al-“ 

I stopped as soon as I saw his face. I had been determined to appear as strong and formidable as I could, but I could tell instantly that he wasn’t being fooled. 

Never had I seen him in such a state. Even in enemy territory he was always so put-together, so calm, so neat and tidy. But here in front of me, his blue eyes were wide and red-rimmed and his hair stuck out at all angles. His clothes were wrinkled and askew, his feet bare. He looked almost... wild. 

I felt a sudden, searing guilt at having been the cause of all his worry. He was supposed to be on a leave of rest—not enduring this kind of stress. And it was all because of me. 

“Fin.” I said in shame, dropping the pretence and slumping my shoulders to more truthfully portray how I felt. I at least owed this man my honesty, and wearing a mask in front of him—lying to him—was truly a terrible insult, after all he had done for me. He deserved much better. “Fin, I’m so sorry. I have to be honest with you—I don’t know what’s _wrong_ with me. I don’t even know what happened, I—“ 

He silenced me simply, by pulling me into him and holding me tightly. I fought back tears as I nestled into his familiar and comforting embrace. 

“Florence, my love—when are ye gonnae ken?” He muttered into my hair, and the endearment made my heart skip, “Ye don’ haf tae apologise tae me. I ken ye, tha’s all. I ken who ye are. I ken wha’s goin’ on fer ye—I jus’ wish I could _help_ ye somehow. Wish ye wouldnae hide from me—wish I could gie ye what ye need.” His accent was thicker than usual, voice rough with emotion, and I struggled at some points to understand him. I realised he was fighting back tears of his own. 

I raised my head up to look at him, wiping the tears that had escaped his eyes with my thumbs as I held his face in my hands. 

“You have, Fin—and you _are_.” I said softly, willing him to know how much I meant it. 

Without thinking, my lips found his, and I kissed him with everything I had. At first, he let me take the lead, responding only after a few seconds when his momentary surprise seemed to fade away. I heard him take a sharp breath through his nostrils as he deepened the kiss, moving his hands up my back to firmly grasp the back of my neck. He moved me towards the wall and I felt my back slam against it. We kissed each other with a desperation not unlike we had the first time we met back in ‘39, gripping each other as our tears mingled with one another’s on our lips. Only this time, the fear we’d had in Poland was replaced with relief, and the uncertainty with joy. 

He had said it—he had called me _his love_ —and even if it had simply been a habitual phrase, hearing the words had made my insides twist.

The truth was, I cared too much about the pilot and the realisation had dawned on me that I _could_ love him. In many ways, perhaps I already did—perhaps I always had. 

I don’t know why my soul had chosen to cling to this particular individual with such sentimental magnetism. I was sure that I had first been simply drawn to the idea of him, as a representation of all the humanity I was trying to save in the world—all that which I loved. He had been an emblem of youth—and life—and home—and eventually, at some point between our first meeting and our second, that emblem I had held onto had become the only piece of humanity still able to save me. He had not let me down. 

It seemed that I had no say in the matter, and even as he drew away, leaning his forehead on mine as we both fought to catch our breath, he was there. Looking into my eyes—into my soul—and healing me when I most needed him. There was no extracting my feelings for him now.


End file.
